Shack Shenanigans, or, Another Such Victory
by Ekanite
Summary: Madness and stupidity are both catching, apparently. Draco fears this pretty plot may be his last, but will he be able to snatch victory from the jaws of…Potter? Set in PoA, ignores much canon. Drarry, HPDM.


_DISCLAIMER: J.K Rowling owns Harry Potter and all related characters and settings, not I. Any other recognizable quotes and idioms aren't mine either. I own only words in between._

_Title: Shack Shenanigans, or, Another Such Victory_

_Word Count: ~5,280_

_Summary: Madness and stupidity are both catching, apparently. Draco fears this pretty plot may be his last, but will he be able to snatch victory from the jaws of…Potter? Set in PoA, ignores much canon. Drarry, HPDM._

_Author's Notes: This is a bit different than my usual fare, but for good reason! _

_This little fic (not so little, actually—it happens to be my longest!) was a gift for my fabulous friend Lovell Luka, based off an awesome dream she had. Granted, it's a good deal expanded, but the credit for the idea goes to her subconscious. She's written a version of this, too, and it's great fun, so please do check it out._

_You'll find that this isn't quite canon compliant, and there are a few seemingly random elements, but hopefully that won't deter your enjoyment. Happy reading, and don't forget to drop me a review and tell me what you think!_

"Bet he's only holding himself together with a couple well-placed Stitching Charms," Draco suggests snidely, leading the way out of the Slytherin common room. "Loopy's a bum, not a proper professor like we deserve."

Vince and Greg grunt in assent while Pansy titters and clings to his arm. He shoots her a look of distaste and tries to shake her away and offer her his burden of black fur instead. She declines huffily.

A few days ago (oh, it seems like torturous years now), one of his mother's many pureblood friends decided that a squirmy, whiny Pomeranian would make the perfect present for such a delightful young wizard as himself. After a lot of arm-twisting he wishes his father had never done, he ended up gaining permission to keep her (it appalls him that the pest is gendered) at Hogwarts. He'll grow to like the dog eventually. Just like one day he'll grow wings and fly away from this awful place.

So here he is, toting the thing around. "I look like an absolute _pansy,"_ he complains righteously. "Erm, no offense intended to present company, of course," he amends to her.

Pansy says nothing, just simpers, always indulgent. Of course she still refuses to take the thing off his hands.

For the record, he, Draco Malfoy, hates sunshine, rainbows, kittens, _and _puppies.

He huffs back (bit late, but he's got enough…huffy skills that timing doesn't matter) and settles her against his chest. He looks into her limpid dark eyes and twists his mouth with distaste. Looking away shortly, he gestures to the others; they trot at his heels, obedient as, well, dogs.

They're up the stairs and halfway down the corridor when they run into them: the would-be king and his court (with two jesters and no courtiers). Potter's flanked by his Mudblood and his Weasel as usual. _He_ has far better taste in bodyguards, Draco thinks, and a touch more variety.

The Terrible Trio is quite ruffled already, so his work shall be eased today. _Pity._ He's looking for a challenge—more so than usual, anyway. 

The Mudblood heaves a sigh as she draws up in front of their party, and rolls her eyes as if she's just _tired _of this, of him. Oh, he'll show her that he's someone to be reckoned with. The Weasel's dumb in both senses, as usual.

Potter is his equal, though, in this rivalry at least (Draco's far superior everywhere else. Obviously). "Nice dog, Malfoy," Potter greets, ever the epitome of courtesy.

He flicks his eyes at Potter's sidekicks. "At least _mine _is pedigree." There are the appropriate sounds of appreciation from your companions. His gaze slides back to Potter's with a sneer. Draco's made his move, what's Potter got?

But Potter's not the first to act. Weasley's freckle-spattered face is already beginning to match his ridiculous hair. He goes tomatoey rather quickly. Not a good look for him, either. This is just too easy—normally a simple delight, but today he'd like something more.

The other sidekick steps in with a palm at his elbow. "Not worth it, Ron," murmurs Granger urgently. The bloody know-it-all. Here's where she's wrong. He's always worth it.

"So what's it do, then? This mutt of yours?" the Weasel demands.

"Pedigreed, might I remind you," he drawls. He holds up a hand and ticks down fingers. "One, she's much better-looking than you. Two, she's much smarter—although that's not much of an achievement for anybody with a whole brain. Three, she's _house-trained—"_

Weasley lunges. Granger blocks while repeating her lie of "Not worth it."

"Toilet jokes, Malfoy? Classy." Potter snorts.

His attention snaps to him, as (alright, he'll admit it) it's been longing to all this time. "Always, Potty." He brushes a microscopic piece of lint from your robes and lets his smirk sink in. Then he gets back to business. "Anyway, what're you doing out here all by your vulnerable little selves? One would think you _wanted _what's coming to you."

"What's coming to us?" Weasley demands. He seems to enjoy doing that, even though that tone won't get him anywhere, not with that face and that intelligence (or lack thereof).

"Nothing's coming to you, Weasley. You're not nearly _special _enough for a dangerous criminal to target, are you? Potter, on the other hand…" As he pauses, he's grateful that, for once, they could keep their big mouths shut until he finished.

"It's nice that you care for me so, Malfoy." Potter has the gall to _glitter _his eyes at you.

And they are very disturbingly glittery, and very disturbingly _green_. He'd think he wore contacts, but of course he's too poor and unfashionable for that. So short of gouging Potter's them out—the idea of which he should be thrilled by, but somehow isn't—he can't do much about those eyes. But he can do something about that big mouth of his. That soft, rosy—where is Draco's _mind? _It tends to stray to shadowy—Potter-y—corners when under duress.

"It's nice that you don't seem to care for your own life," he shoots back feebly, knowing that Potter'll take that as his point proven, imbecile that he is. At least he's covered his momentary lapse of sanity. "Anyway, if you're so brave as to strut about the castle like a peacock—" Peacocks were _green. _Not like _eyes, _but still."—maybe you ought to take a walk outside."

"How d'you mean?" Potter's frowning and crossing his spider-leg-thin arms across his chest. Confrontational? He wishes.

His mind spins fast, a Sneakoscope of brilliance, really. And he engineers the perfect plan to destroy Potter and build himself a platform from his _shattered remnants._ Which will not be as gory as it sounds, he hopes. This plan perhaps requires just a touch of Gryffindor idiocy, but he's probably only caught that strain of stupid from extended proximity. Besides, the scheming is so Slytherin that he's more than redeemed.

In between quick snide comments, Dracp reveals it. There is shock, there is delight, and he's king of his world once more. Right now, there's too much glee to leave any room for trepidation. The dog kicks against his chest with even more wiggly gaiety than usual, and he can't even bring himself to be annoyed.

Now he tenses and waits for his proposal to be accepted, although a small voice pipes up that it'll be much better for Draco if it isn't.

There's one objection, from the queen—or perhaps more accurately, the head serf—of sticks-in-the-mud herself, obviously.

"Oh, Harry. You _can't…" _ She clutches at his arm and looks half-stern, half-plaintive, and all pathetic.

"I'm going to, Hermione," Potter tells her firmly, crossing his arms tighter yet. And for a minute, he catches a glimpse of someone to be reckoned with, in the set of his fragile jaw, even. "You can't stop me."

Granger is in throes of buck-toothed despair. She places her hand on his elbow (she would be one to have an penchant for elbows, of all things), and tilts her bushy head imploringly. He's satisfied that she comes up fruitless. "At least lay a few ground rules, then! It won't be safe otherwise."

"We're not doing this to be _safe_." His eyes might just roll out of his head. And, well, that'd be one way to solve your little looking-too-long problem. Although of course there's still every one of his cowlicks you'd have to drag your eyes away from (because they're just that unsightly). "I'm doing this to prove a point. Malfoy's doing this because he's—"

"A bloody _nutter, _blimey!" Weasley cuts in.

"Besides, rules are made to be bent," he remind her, choosing to ignore this particular outburst. "And in some people's cases, snapped in half and crushed underfoot." He throws a pointed, absolutely _not _lingering glance Potter's way. After that, Draco turns his head to the left and then the right. This signals that he's done here, wasted enough time already.

Weasley doesn't get this signal. "You try to hurt him, and we'll—"

Draco doesn't spare _him _a glance as he scoffs, "I'd like to see you try."

Oh no, it's not his _friends_ he's afraid of. Not that he's unreasonably afraid of anything. Especially not his own schemes, impulsive as they might be…

"How'd _you _get here then, Potter?" he gasps, winded but not showing it so much.

His cheeks are red and they turn his whole palette more garish than usual—Christmas colors in the worst way, red on snowy white with accents of…_green. _"I have my ways," he says with the whisper of a cheeky grin. Potter drops to the floor and blinks up at him.

The dog whines before it paws at his ribs. He doesn't even know why he brought the stupid thing: even Potter offers him more protection than this pup. He resists the temptation to knee it a good one and instead drives that energy into hitting the ground in a hard but dignified-as-possible squat, a good few feet away. So nobody gets any ideas.

He's brought a stupid little bag with him. His is much nicer, Draco thinks, twisting a finger in its leather strap, possessive as he has every right to be (Potter might be a self-righteous Gryffindor, but he's a _poor _self-righteous Gryffindor all the same).

"Got the purse to match the dog, then?" He can't see his expression in the dark but despise it anyway. 

"It's a satchel," he informs him stiffly. "Look, Potter, maybe speaking to me drives away the illusion that you're not surrounded by your cronies here. I don't want that. So shut up."

"You can't tell me what to do." Potter is such a child.

"Watch me." But after all, so is Draco.

"Let's try not to kill each other, eh?" he suggests, just like Draco had tried to not a half minute ago.

He looks round, shrug one aristocratic shoulder. "I'm positive it wouldn't be the first murder that happened here," he insinuates, smirking wildly with his eyes wide and a hand twisting pale and eerie in the air. He might as well perform while he can.

Alright, so Draco's landed himself in a sticky situation. He's stuck in the Shrieking Shack at midnight with nothing but a couple pathetic rodents for company, and maybe some actual rats if he's lucky.

He'd like to say that the only sound was the beat of blood in his ears, but there are night noises—squeaks and gusts, maybe a hoot or two—accompanying the obligatory sniffles from the dog and strange sharp breaths from Potter.

He's suffocating not on silence, but on a muted cacophony. His ears aren't the only sensory organ to be put through pain, either.

His eyes strain against the tangible dark that reaches into every corner of the Shack. His nostrils flare as they fill with a musty stench that likely hasn't been smelled by living noses in decades. His skin shivers and goose-pimples in the cold, cold air. He wouldn't be surprised to find that his bones were all ice inside.

Draco has to struggle to remind himself that this was _his _idea, and therefore an excellent one that ought to be carried through to fruition, especially since Potter's bearing it (with a grimace rather than a grin, so Draco has a chance yet).

Potter's wand lies perpendicular to his, and so there's a pool of light spilled about them—Potter was, surprisingly, wise enough to cast _Lumos, _although Draco suspects it was only after he heard him do it.

The light displays a fabulous collection of mildew smears on the greying floorboards (or what's left of them—they're speckled with cobweb-spanned wormholes). A couple look more scarlet than green. There's a faint smell of rot and ruin drifting up from it, twining with the musk in an unpleasant waltz of stink. He wonders what exactly took place here all those years ago before deciding that he probably doesn't want to know.

There's a low sound from outside, like that of some feral animal. Before he can gather his (considerable) wits, his hand's shot out and clasped Potter's bony wrist. As if he could offer him any protection. He gives it a vehement twist because he, like, _meant to do that _and releases it before scowling at him. It was likely naught but the whinge of the wind, his fast reflexes betraying him.

He snatches his wand up from the floor, just in case. He props one hand under the dog and curls his fist to his chest. The advantage to this is that he'll be quickest to act in trouble. The disadvantage is that the lifted light throws Potter's less-than-chiseled features into relief. So Draco can see imperfect things perfectly.

Potter examines the bracelet of red with a distasteful curl of his lip. "You're a brave one, aren't you? There are no such things as ghosts."

His eyebrows hike up. "Tell that to your Sir Mimsy de _Poopington-"_

"Whatever, Malfoy. I said one thing and thought another. As if you've never done that!" he exclaims, rolling his eyes. Draco only just remembers that they are green, and that when he shakes his head so, his hair does flop about and look rather fetching (in a _floppy _way, which is to say not at all).

Draco knows that the pause between quips has stretched too long, but he can't let a hook like that go. "Oh, of course I have, Potter. I was just surprised, because see, thinking is usually reserved for people with greater intelligence than the average insect—"

"You're the insect, Malfoy! Now quit _bugging _me." Potter cracks a smile, and Draco almost does too, to his horror. "Seriously, your insulting skills have taken a turn for the amateur." A hint at the pretentious slips into his quiet voice, and Draco only realizes he's mocking him when he continues, "I would have hoped a Malfoy could never stoop so low as to make pseudo-humorous remarks about fecal matter and lack of intelligence."

He feels his cheeks pink. "Shut your big—" Soft, _smirking_…"—mouth, Potter. Nobody talks like that, least of all a Malfoy!" Ah, well, he might have chosen that last phrase differently.

Potter _grins_, grins wide and white in the dim Shack. "How's it feel to lose a verbal spar, Malfoy? Hope it hurts."

"Stupid _and_ a sadist," Draco attempts. He abandons it and goes with the classic, "Stuff it, pillock."

Potter's still grinning, and he wants to do bad things to that grin. As in throwing punches at it. And pulling perfect pearly—no, left canine's yellow, and Potter's hardly perfect—teeth and such. Bad things. Yes. To yellowy teeth, not to pink lips.

He suddenly notices that they are sitting close, closer than two _boys _who _hate _each other _very much_ should be. He scoots to his right.

Potter stays where he is, draws up his poky knees to his chest, and starts to frown now. "This means you're planning to leave me alone, then?"

But though Draco said he would earlier, that Potter wasn't worth his time… he _can't _leave him be now, especially when he has the hairs-breadth of the upper hand. This could actually be fun, _if _they both fight. Like equals, which, for once, they really were, all alone in the dark and danger. Perhaps it could even be exactly what he wanted to get out of this night, since he hadn't quite puzzled his own motives out yet. "Ooh, poor Potty. Leave you alone? I'm afraid I can_-_"

He jumps on that before Draco can finish. "And that's just what you are. _Afraid." _He goes for a sneer and Draco finds the grin suits him better.

"I suppose you're not scared one bit, then? " he snorts. "Honestly, Potter, I don't know what you'd do without me."

"I'd be happier, that's for sure," he says resentfully. "Just why can't you stay away, Malfoy?" His tone's changed suddenly, back to being a challenge rather than sighed questions. And Draco thinks that he might rather _like _it, and the little twitch at the corner of Potter's mouth, and the jut of his chin and the silly curl of his hair…he also thinks that perhaps he ought to do less thinking.

Potter's eyes are glimmering close under his glasses, since he's sort of rocked forward on his knuckles. They're unnerving as a cat's.

Or a dog's, Draco reminds himself, as the dog decides to blink up at him too, its eyes orange-to-blue plates in the dim wand-glow. It pushes its nose into his hand. He pushes it away. Then he flattens his now-damp palm against the wood and leans forward as well. Draco has a feeling Potter's question was more rhetorical than anything, so he waits for him to speak.

"I know why," Potter now pronounces, breathless with his apparent realization. Draco feels a little flutter of trepidation, like a Cornish pixie's caged behind his ribs, only less vicious and bite-y. "I mean, yeah, you get your sick kicks out of bullying Ron and Hermione as well. I reckon you've got your twisted pureblood or Malfoy or whatever reasons for that—reasons that likely make more sense in your fat head than out. But with _me, _it's just so personal, isn't it?"

He can't argue with any of that (except that fat head bit, because Draco has a lovely aristocratic jaw-line and he's fairly sure fat head applies more to The Boy Who He Wished Hadn't Lived over there). Yet, he'll try. "Please, Potty. Your blood is hardly untainted."

He shrugs, and how can he just not care? Sometimes, Draco wishes for apathy.

Quite abruptly, Potter turns away, then, picks up his wand, casting the glow away from their jagged polygon of wand-light . He knuckles to a corner, like some ape or Yeti, as is fitting for his intelligence level.

"Come back here, you great ape," you snap.

"Think I shan't. Will you miss me, Malfoy?" He laughs and doesn't come back, of course, instead rooting through his raggedy bag. He comes up with a pair of holey pyjamas that are either the color of pistachios or some powder-blue; it's hard to tell in this dim light.

Either way, they're nearly as unsightly as a suddenly-shirtless Potter. His back is fish belly-white and his shoulder blades are like literal daggers or perhaps scimitars under his skin. His shoulders are sharp points as well, points that might be the beginning of something-wings for their "angelic Saviour"? It's so perfect he could puke.

Still, it surprises Draco that under flashy masks and saucy words and baggy clothes is this boy, wan and spare like there's no skin over his skeleton and he's nothing but bones. Like he's all of bones and he'll shatter if Draco presses him too hard.

Draco's thought processes muddle at midnight. That must be why he can't seem to tear his half-horrified gaze away as he strips his trousers down to those poky knees. And that must be why he can't do anything but babble, "What do you think you're _doing_? You don't have to go mad yourself merely because a madman's after you. This is not a place where 'if you can't beat them, join them' applies! "

Potter doesn't turn still, just tips back his messy black head as he shrugs into his shirt. "I'm undressing."

He'd better redress quick, too. The crescent of exposed skin at his waist is paler than the moon, and Draco's eyes are beginning to almost ache. "This isn't your Gryffindor dorm, Potter!" he reminds him. He'll chastise your vocal cords later—was that squeak really necessary?

"I'm still going to sleep, aren't I?" He settles back on the floor in fetal position, back to Draco. One single pebble of his spine is visible still, and his crow-black hair feathers out on the floorboards. While he sits straight, Potter, perfect Potter, is prone. For a minute, heady power rushes through Draco. He can _hurt _him; he can really hurt him if he wants to.

The power fades, leaving an emptiness streaked through him. "You're mad. You can't really be planning to—to nap in the midst of the Shrieking Shack!"

He takes off his spectacles. "So're you," he says blearily. "Mad, I mean. You don't undress, you don't sleep. So what do you do at night, Malfoy?" Draco hears him laugh against the floor and he can almost taste wormy wood on his own tongue. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

"That's right, you don't," he retorts. Let him think that the Slytherins hold bizarre rituals and things long into the wee hours. He ought to be scared of something, legitimate or not.

Draco waits, but Potter's breathing doesn't slow. It seems to get louder, in fact, and joins in concert with the pants from the Pomeranian. He pulls the dog to him—he's freezing, and although he casts a quick Warming Charm, a breathing body may warm him faster. The button eyes stare at him and he stares back, tangling his cold fingers in fur no darker than the night. This isn't so bad. But this is a one-time thing.

He can't just sit here with a lap full of pup all night. On impulse, he scrambles to his feet (and cringes at the chorus of creaks). "Here," he says firmly, to one of the three present though he's not sure whom. He mutters a string of similar-sounding words until the spell finally forms in his mouth.

A great squishy green-and-grey mass balloons out of the tip of his wand: a crude sleeping bag for him. It's a bit misshapen, but it's more than Potter would ever be able to do. More than bony little Potter. Before he can stop himself, there's one conjured up for him, too. Draco can't stomach creating anything red and gold, ick, so he'll have to make do with navy instead.

At some point, Potter eased out of his half-doze and got to his feet as well. So Potter's on his knees again, squinting at Draco. He just can't figure him out. Draco likes it that way.

"You going to use it or not?" he grumbles, hunkering down in his own with the dog.

He adjusts, too, squirming and flipping until he's finally facing Draco again, a not-so-very-wholly-unpleasant change. "What's her name?" he blurts.

"She doesn't merit one," he tells him. "Not yet." Before he can stop himself (one part of him always acts faster), he's adding, "And Merlin, don't even talk to me. Just close those stupid scummy eyes of yours."

He smiles a mere twitch and does so, and Draco's so surprised that his own eyes are wide for a while after. There's not much to look at, so he's forced to fixate on him. His bramble-black hair, the steep swoop of his nose, the squishy pink of his mouth. His neck's graceless curve down into the sleeping bag.

His self-control is truly lacking today. Draco reaches out and curls a hand into his neck just so and watches as red marks bleed out of white skin. He want to mark him, not mar him, maybe, and he doesn't know why.

Potter's eyes shoot open and pin him like especially prickly blades of grass. "Setting up to strangle me?" he suggests, grinning like the madman he is. "That'd be an awfully Muggle way to off somebody."

"Don't be morbid. I'm not going to strangle you." Horrible puns are suddenly irresistible, just like lips are suddenly pillowy-wet, and he cracks, "But I _will _take your breath away." He smirks to show that, see, _he's _only _half _as mad. And then his mouth is rather busy with something not-so-very-wholly-unpleasant.

Kissing has never struck Draco as a pastime he'd like to engage in. It's a swapping of spit and probably also of horrible lurgies. But he's no lurgies, and Potter doesn't taste like any, either. Their mouths are slick and snug against each other. His own lips slide under, over and only once between Potter's. Potter's lips might be something like sodden silk cushions, although he's never _snogged_ once of _those _before.

Even his mouth loses its deadly delineations, but that's the only thing Draco's lost. Because he feels like he's won. He feels like he's suddenly come into possession of something precious, more precious than precious Potter on his own.

Draco's hand on Potter's neck should anchor him, yet he feels that he flies higher than his broom takes him, somewhere where he can hardly breathe and hardly minds.

Perhaps the pixie in his chest has come to lift them away.

And then Draco gains a fear of heights and jerks back completely.

Potter comes to his senses with a swipe of his hand across his spit-shined mouth. "What—" he chokes, breathless after all. "was all that?"

"I dunno, Potter, what would you usually call it when you put your mouth on somebody's?" he asks once he's inhaled a great gulp of sour air as well.

"Snogging, stupid," he says slowly rather than snidely. "but I wouldn't know much about that."

He places a hand on the dog's fluffy head where it nudges against his chest (for solidarity, it must be understood). "Wouldn't you? You've never gotten a quick one in a cupboard from Granger, or stolen one off the Weaslette when you swept her off her feet? Shame."

"You're the one who should be ashamed, Malfoy!" Potter protests. "You forced yourself on me."

"Oh, please," Draco dismisses him. He attempts to study your nails in the dark, but the only crescent he'll be seeing is the sliver of moon out the gaping window, and perhaps that bit of Potter-back, if he decides to turn to the side again after all. "You were _gagging_ for it!"

"I was gagging because that's what you would usually do if somebody stuffed their stupid tongue down your throat!" He glares at him and he'd be incinerated on the spot if his eyes were less like Floo-fire and more like a real inferno.

"_Au contraire, _Potter. My tongue is very clever, you see." He smirks, though his lips are puffy (and their swell isn't the last remnant of that kiss, either—the nervous energy still tickles at him).

And it must be as clever as he suspected, because that sure shuts him up. "Never again, Malfoy," he sighs at last.

Draco tests out Gryffindor grit. That makes this his third trial of recklessness recently. "What if I want to again? What'll you do?"

Potter doesn't like the taste of his own medicine. "I'll require apologies, first," he says, almost prim but never proper.

"Apologies?" He rolls the word in your mouth like a foreign sweet. "Perhaps I can manage one or two, no matter how…difficult." How repulsive, he wants to say. But then again, perhaps he can bite out one or two.

Kissing may be overrated for most, but Draco's apparently summoned enough skill that he wants to try it again. With Potter, even, just because he's here and he needs to be taught better things to do with his mouth.

Draco certainly doesn't think his is a pretty face to kiss—unnatural eyes behind repulsive glasses, razor nose, all that silly flyaway hair.

And what of the person behind the face? Draco could have discovered so much more as they're thrown here together, but all he finds is yet more insanity and irreverence.

Draco resurfaces from his Pensieve-deep thoughts. "Good," Potter is declaring simply, with a smile as succinct. "I look forward to '_sorry', _though I dunno if I'll ever hear it._" _ The smile yanks at something in Draco's chest, claws its way in. And he lets it, not that he can do anything to stop that swell of some other something or the push of an answering grin.

"You can bet your little life you will," he declares in a barely-there murmur, feeling foolish but wanting to put it out there anyway.

Draco wonders if Potter even saw his smile. It's not long before Potter slips off to sleep. He blinks, awake. There's dark pressing at the edge of his subconscious whether his eyes open or close. Draco brings the dog close and warm.

He looks upon Potter to occupy himself. One of the somethings flutter and claw in his chest. Couldn't he just sneak one snog in, have to do one less apology? Those slumber-soft lips are so tempting.

But no, says the other something curled round the beat of his heart, it'll rouse him. So instead he decides it's best to restrain foolish urges and not have to deal with a fool's consequences afterwards. He's never a Gryffindor, not really, not even after sort-of-snogging one.

Draco eases to a sitting position, the dog snug against his chest. The wind whinges once more and a distant cry accompanies it. He presses his palm into the dog's side and shivers.

But then, after a fretful glance around, Draco wants to laugh at himself for scaring so easily.

How could anything stranger than tonight's events ever occurred? And could anything that happens later top what happened now?

He has his doubts, especially when his fingers tremble across still-swollen, still-sweet lips. Draco has marked Potter, as Potter has marked him, and no matter what he says, he's not one bit sorry.

The dog abruptly yelps, and yelps and yelps, and of course it's at the convenient time when Potter's breaths deepen further and Draco has sunk into gentle reverie. He wants to shut it up; it'll wake Potter and goodness knows Draco doesn't want yaps from him, either. It's not because he sees his eyelids flutter and purpling shadows under them, it's not because of that stupid smile of his, even in slumber.

However, of course Potter does jerk awake. His green eyes burn bright up at Draco, who groans. "S'wrong?" he mumbles. "You alright?"

The something gives Draco's heart a squeeze, like it wants to remind him about this prat and all his noble tendencies. "M'fine, stupid. Sleep," he mumbles back in imitation of him.

Potter then sits up once more, and scoots closer. With a flash of a grin, his eyes flutter shut and his arm loops over Draco's shoulders. Draco stiffens. He chuckles. "I see you're keeping vigil."

"Never fear, Potter," Draco says grandly. He straightens against his chest while waving expressive fingers in the air. "Your sneaky Slytherin will catch the ghosts for you." His cheeks pink lightly at his own use of a _possessive _pronoun, like Draco could ever be owned by anyone. But no, it isn't ownership, says that chatty something. It's care.

"And your gutsy Gryffindor will chase them away for you," promises Potter. It's care that he'd never thought he reciprocate, but he does, perhaps forever has and will.

"Shut your mouth. And then your eyes," he amends, doing so himself. His wand's close, his dog's close, Potter's here, not that that'll help.

He places a hesitant hand at Potter's waist and thinks that he holds power in his quiver of his palm.

This whole thing's rather idiotic—the plan, the Potter. But perhaps Draco should try indulging in stupidity so often—it certainly keeps _some _people's hearts thrumming (as he can feel against the shell of his quickly-warming ear). Stupidity also, he thinks as the dark presses at his conscious and pulls him in, has itsprofits. Potter-related payoffs, that is. And weren't those just the most gleeful kind!


End file.
